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O'Neill play summons ghosts of actors past

Wednesday, March 22, 2000

By JEFFREY ERIC JENKINS
SPECIAL TO THE SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER

NEW YORK -- There is nothing quite like the experience of sitting in an empty, darkened theater. Silent and void of human habitation, you can practically hear the whispers of performers long gone. Their presence, conjured by absence, lingers in memory and imagination.

It's interesting, then, that the vital and moving new production of Eugene O'Neill's "Moon for the Misbegotten," which opened Sunday night at the Walter Kerr Theatre, has more than its share of shades hovering over the proceedings in a packed Broadway house.

When O'Neill is done well -- and former Seattle Repertory Theatre artistic director Daniel Sullivan has managed that neat trick twice in recent years -- ghostly witnesses are part of the package. O'Neill's characters are burdened by the baggage of lives half-lived, misspent youths and the tragedy of neglect. Even in Sullivan's gently comic 1998 production of "Ah Wilderness!," there was always a discomfiting darkness off in the distance.

But "Moon for the Misbegotten" was a kind of dramaturgical expiation for O'Neill, the only American playwright to receive the Nobel Prize. Written at the end of his career, "Moon" was a kind of benediction for the wasted, alcoholic life of O'Neill's brother, James. The play imagines a tortuous night of release and rough salvation for the sodden elder sibling.

Tough-talking Josie Hogan (the luminous Cherry Jones) rules the roost of her father Phil's (raucously funny Roy Dotrice), shanty of tarpaper, corrugated tin and rotting clapboard.

Designer Eugene Lee's boulder and rock-filled scene design -- with rusted wire, ancient mattress springs and various farm implements scattered about -- creates a bleak yet poetic backdrop for the Hogans' hardscrabble existence. Jane Greenwood's simple, charming costumes and Pat Collins' sensitive lighting heighten the effect.

When we first glimpse Josie, sturdy and possessed of a rough charm, she is helping her pious younger brother (played by Paul Hewitt) escape their tyrannical father to join their brothers in the city. Phil rails at the betrayal, but he's happy to see the boy go, claiming his ilk are "So busy with temperance, they have no time to drink. Scum of the earth!" As played by the vibrant Dotrice, with an unceasing gleam in his eye, Phil is the kind of man who would, as Josie tells him, "Swear on a Bible when you're stealing it."

THEATER REVIEW

Moon for the Misbegotten. By Eugene O'Neill. Walter Kerr Theatre, 219 West 48th St., New York City. Closes June 18. Tickets $25-70; 800-432-7250.

The early scenes of the four-act play, which runs just under three hours, overflow with rich acting and include a delicious interaction when the Hogans torment their wealthy next-door neighbor, Harder (Tuck Milligan). Blessed by the playwright with the gift of blarney, the Hogans convert a dispute over broken fences and hogs wallowing in an untainted pond into gales of appreciative laughter.

The tone of the play shifts with the entrance of James Tyrone (Gabriel Byrne. For a variety of reasons, it is a change both true to form and troubling. Tyrone, a drunken roué and self-described "ham actor," has become the Hogans' landlord through the death of his mother. Suffering from the "heebie-jeebies," he needs frequent steadying with a drink of whiskey. When Josie notices his withdrawn demeanor and says, "There's no spirit in you," it's all too true.

Tortured by the memory of his debauched behavior on a train trip while accompanying his mother's body to its final rest, Tyrone drowns himself in alcohol and remorse. As he awaits final disposition of his family estate, Tyrone reaches out to Josie for kinship, comfort and love.

Although Josie has (and seems to enjoy) a reputation in the countryside as a wanton woman who will bed any man who takes an interest, Tyrone says it's all a big bluff -- and he knows because he's a big bluffer too.

In a late scene of utter drunken depravity, Tyrone finally bares his guilt to Josie while nestled in her bosom. He spares himself nothing and melts into huge racking sobs (as did one mightily affected audience member). Once unburdened, he drops into the deepest sleep and lies in her arms as she leans against a massive rock like a Pietà of the commonplace.

It's the enigmatic Byrne that makes Tyrone's entrance most troubling. With his understated, Ivy League-inflected delivery, Byrne minimizes a key element in his character's nature: that of the ham actor. Perhaps Byrne, a potent presence in his film roles, is unused to theatrical projection (a common complaint from this corner about film actors on the stage). Maybe it's designed to contrast with the moment of emotional release. Whatever the answer, Byrne ultimately delivers the goods as he gradually works himself into a wrenching, boozy frenzy.

It's difficult to imagine that there aren't some ghostly apparitions crowding the actors' work (and not merely the tortured souls of the O'Neill family). You can practically feel the late Colleen Dewhurst grinning warmly at Jones' nuanced, heart-filling portrayal. Jason Robards, who is still among us, defined the O'Neill men for two generations of theatergoers. Comparisons between Robards and Byrne are inevitable and perfectly acceptable. In another generation, the spirits of Jones, Byrne and Dotrice will haunt another production.

If you're very still, maybe you'll hear those whispers.

Jeffrey Eric Jenkins is a New York-based theater writer for the P-I. He can be reached at 718-789-5553 or by e-mail at Crritic@compuserve.com

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